


what is worth protecting

by ashmeera101



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-09 09:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17404433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashmeera101/pseuds/ashmeera101
Summary: There is anger and sorrow and loss inside of you. But there is also hope, burning, bleeding hope.In which Yasha thinks on the Stormlord's vision.





	what is worth protecting

You feel your hands shake.

The cold steel of your blade is harsh under your fingers, as if mocking you for trembling. For showing weakness. You run the whetstone along its length, ignoring the unsteadiness of your hand, but it is there. No matter how tightly you grip the hilt, the whetstone, no matter how hard you ignore your reflection in the blade, ignore the darkening sky above you. 

_Coward._

They see an unmovable, unstoppable war machine. They see the wild hair, the arcing sword, the sudden sweep of the skeletal wings you unsheathe. They see what you want them to see. A mask. A shield that you wear to protect yourself. To protect them from the inevitable curse you bring about those in your proximity. Those unlucky enough to care for you.

 _Orphan maker._  

And yet. And yet…

You press the flowers into your book. You trace them by the firelight as you take watch, memorising the way the petals curve, the vibrant colours visible even in the darkness and the flickering shadows. Colours not imaginable in the greys and browns of Xhorhas.

Colours as bright and as warm as her laugh. Her smile.

Her eyes were as brown as the brush, the sun burned savannah just out of reach of the swamplands where they often made camp. Nomadic as they were, even they had paths they were fond of taking. Where the hunt was good and the water sources reliable. Fights with other tribes could be found easily, if wanted, but they could just as easily disappear into the shrubbery, disappear into the dozens of miles of untamed wilderness.

The stars were bright, brilliant in the night. They looked the same here in Wildemount as they did in Xhorhas but did not carry the same weight. Here, one was surrounded by the smell of the forest, of earth and growing things. One’s ears were busy with the sound of crackling, burning wood, of laughter, of badly made jokes and swears. Of the heat of many bodies pressed close together for warmth and company. 

Out in the wilds of Xhorhas, the air was still. Silent. The air was scentless, carrying only the breath and damp of the swamp. Only the stars burned above you, silent. Everlasting. Watching as you trudged across the brush, away from the camp, away from the prying eyes of the tribe. Cloak and hood drawn tight around you, lest you be seen.

A hand warm in yours, drawing you ahead. The warmth mirrored in your own chest.

It rarely rained in Xhorhas, and when it did, it was quick. A brief drizzle, enough for the shrubbery and cacti to taste, to savour, to store in their deep, deep roots. The skies were muted, yes, often curtained by scanty, grey clouds that carried barely any water. But to see a true storm, a storm that carried anger, fear, bright burning lightning… that was not a common sight.

But when you ran, away from the tribe, away from the lifeless brown eyes that you could not seem to forget, that were burned, burned _burned_ into your mind like an iron brand, that is when the sky darkened.

The first rumble of thunder, the first slice of lightning through the black sky, was enough to send you stumbling. You still continued running, running and running and running west, towards the mountains, towards whatever unknown lands that lay beyond them. You did not notice that you were running into the storm, that the clouds swirled and quickened around you.

It did not rain for days. You ran and ran, and the clouds followed, but they did not unleash themselves. Not until you finally began to slow, stumbling from the hunger and the thirst. Only then, when your foot caught a stray root, when you tumbled face first into the ground, too weak to stand up again. Only then, before your eyes fluttered shut, did you start to feel the rain on your cheek.

It was warm. And in your half-delirious mind, it felt like a caress.

There is so much more you do not speak of. The anger, the sorrow, the loss. The love that still burned beneath it all, clear and sharp and bright. You will never forget how real it was, how _important_ she was. And how it was all taken from you in a single moment. Everything you had cared for. The one person that made sense.

You feel that perhaps she is still watching from somewhere. Perhaps it is foolish to imagine so, but you cannot help it. Stray windchimes sound like her laughter, a shop keep’s eyes the exact shade of brown that hers were.

You see _her,_ you see your Zuala in your newfound friends. In Jester’s earnestness, in Fjord’s rousing speeches, in Nott’s bravery (and taste in liquor). In Caduceus’ quiet eyes as he listened to people, making you feel heard. Understood.

The Stormlord’s voice rumbles in your chest, the emptiness in your ribcage where warmth once lived.

_To be alone, to push others away, can prevent loss, but it also prevents growth. Strength, purpose… how much, how many will you lose until you find your strength?_

But you are not strong. How can you be strong, how can you be courageous, when you fail to protect those you care for the most?

Zuala. Molly.

Their smiles, their voices, their ringing laughter, never to be heard again.

A loud rumble echoed above her, the preceding flash of lighting obscured by the thick canopy of trees.

_Show me what is important. What is worth protecting._

Maybe you will never stop being a coward. Maybe the anger, the sorrow, the loss will live in your ribs for the rest of your life, making each aching breath burn worse than the last. 

Maybe you will never find her grave, never show her the flowers you collected. The bright, beautiful, fragile things that made this world a little brighter. Just as she did for you. 

You will never hear her laugh again. Never feel her fingers curl in your tangled hair, never feel the warmth of her body press close to yours. Never hear the promises she used to whisper when you were alone in the wastes, hands held tight, only the stars as your witness.

_To love. To cherish. For the rest of our lives._

But the memory of her, the memory of your Zuala will live on in you. Just as the memory of Mollymauk will live on in you and the others. Your new friends. People that you just may learn to trust. To care for.

Another rumble of thunder above you. This one, carrying a hint of approval. Of pride.   

Your fingers tighten around the hilt of the blade. They do not tremble anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Matt's description of the Stormlord's vision has been one of the most beautiful and haunting scenes in Campaign 2 so far for me. Paired with Yasha's backstory and more recently, the Yasha character playlist (thank u Ashley Johnson for personally entering my apartment and sticking a knife into me repeatedly) - I have not. Been. Able. To Stop. 
> 
> I have not written in months, but this... I couldn't stop this from happening. I love Yasha. I love how achingly tragic and yet soft she is. Bless her.


End file.
